


Along Came A Spider

by actualromeo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fusion, Gen, Pining, Time Travel, Web!Martin, canon typical spiders, ohh nooo somethings happened to jonnn i wonder what it issss...., open ending? i guess, which is to say not many but theyre very important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23813377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualromeo/pseuds/actualromeo
Summary: The thing is, the change wasn't that jarring if you don’t look at Jon that often. Which. Um. Martin does. A lot. Which is why he wasn’t really sure if it was-- appropriate? To bring it up. At first.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Annabelle Cane, one sided Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 72
Kudos: 669





	1. (breaking and) entering

The thing is, the change wasn't that jarring if you don’t look at Jon that often. Which. Um. Martin does. A lot. Which is why he wasn’t really sure if it was-- appropriate? To bring it up. At first.

Jon went home sick on Friday, after collapsing in his office with Sasha. It was sort of… expected. The fact that Jon sometimes slept in the Archive was something of an open secret, and that even when he didn’t he was there til obscenely late hours. Eating regularly was also not in Jon’s strong suit, even if Martin tried to help, and-- well. It was coming. He was back by Monday, and at first, Martin wasn’t concerned. You know. In the beginning.

The first thing he noticed was the hair. Well, everyone noticed the haircut, obviously; it was an entirely different style, loose and forward. Without product and almost without care, unlike the gelled back copy of Elias that it once had been. When Jon walked in with the new style that first Monday, tense and jittery, Tim had punched him on the shoulder and poked fun at him for finally getting rid of it. Martin hadn’t been there, but Tim had been very particular in the way he described how Jon had _nearly cried_. He bore most of Tim’s two hour anxious rumination over how to best apologize, and what he might have done wrong, if he’d accidentally bullied Jon out of the hairstyle, if he’d actually hurt him, etcetera, etcetera. Other than the occasional reminder that no, Tim, it probably wasn’t the plastic spider thing, that happened a month ago, Martin wasn’t really listening. 

Mostly, he was distracted by the new graying. A _lot_ of new graying. It was weird, sure, to get that much grey hair over one weekend, but he was sick, and constantly overworking himself. At the time he’d been charmed by the, uh. Silver-fox quality, that it held. But whether and how Martin appreciated it was _not important._ Just that it was weird, in hindsight. And-- and the hair ties. Starting that Monday, Jon started keeping _hair ties._ One, sometimes two, on his wrist, which Martin definitely did not see because he’s frequently distracted by Jon’s hands. At all. Still! Weird, because Jon hadn’t had hair long enough to tie in all the time Martin knew him, which was going on three years of rocky, uncomfortable co-working.

The new.. marks, took a few days to notice. Patchy little circles, just a couple shades lighter than Jon’s skin, dot his face and arms, and the palm of his left hand has the same discoloration, creeping onto the back of it. (Speaking of, Jon was almost certainly left handed before, and all the sudden he’s _not._ ) The worst of them he only noticed once he was looking: a long stripe across his trachea, jagged, like someone took a knife to it.

Because Martin was maybe a little in denial of how much time he spent looking at Jon, though, he brushed those to the side. Birthmarks he’d never noticed, weird surgery, there were any number of explanations. There had to be. And it wasn’t like Martin was entitled to know, so he just. Didn’t ask.

The thing is, he can’t really deny it anymore. The straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak, was the way he’s started being _nice_ . At least, to Martin. He’s nicer now in general, but he’s not certain Tim or Sasha have noticed, because Jon was never really… terrible, to them. Not the way he was to Martin. Sure, Jon gave a little smile and thanked Sasha when she gave him a statement, but the gratitude had always been implied. When he gave Martin a tight lipped nod and accepted his tea gratefully, _that_ was a change. A sort of pathetic one, but usually Jon snipped. Neutral is better than nothing.

Well, not.. neutral. Jon’s taken to avoiding Martin a little, ducking out of rooms and leaving conversations, but. It’s better than being yelled at? He doesn’t even insult Martin anymore! Or, he does, but it’s sort of an afterthought. No venom. More, _“Martin, lord-- that’s from ‘89, why is it over here--”_ and less, _“Quit loitering and review the filing system, if you’re so intent to waste oxygen._ ” It’s an improvement? Martin hasn’t caught a mean quip about him on the tapes once!

Really, though, what brought Martin to where he is-- that was the apology. Jon just. Took Martin by the arm when he’d come in, looked at him seriously, and apologized for being so cruel. Said that Martin had never deserved it.

Jon was gone before Martin could get a word in, locked in his office. Martin had stood there and realized that, yeah. He couldn’t go another day without talking about this with Tim and Sasha. It’s frankly ridiculous that something that normal was the push over the edge, but--

“Jon _doesn’t_ apologize,” Tim stresses to a curious looking Sasha.

She just raises a brow. “Never? Not once?” Tim knew Jon the longest, they’d been in the same section of research. Martin was only a junior researcher, but nearby-- Sasha had been all the way in Artifact Storage, and had barely met him when he got the job.

“He _does,_ but it’s-- Christ, it is a sorry affair. The kind of apology that makes you look around for whoever’s holding him at gunpoint to say it.”

“It wasn’t like that,” cuts in Martin. “It was-- scarily genuine.” Almost sad. “Usually he looks like a caged animal when he apologizes.” 

Sasha gives both boys a placating smile, rolling her eyes. “I’m no Jon expert, but I think he’s just being… nice?”

“Yeah, and that’s _weird_ for him!” cries Martin, before quickly lowering his voice. “I mean, did something happen?” He won’t bring up the weird marks, or the right handedness, or the hairbands, because that’s… weird. It’s weird, objectively. But it sure isn’t helping his case.

“No, like-- he’s opening up. It’s a good thing that he’s not being a dick to you anymore, Martin. I’ve figured this was coming, actually? Like on your birthday, he… did talk about emulsifiers the whole time, but that was also the longest I’ve ever heard him talk. I think it’s nice that he’s opening up, edging the stick out of his arse a little.”

Tim snorts, then sobers. “No, he info dumps a lot, honestly. Sharing a desk in research was a once a week speech hell about something _probably_ very interesting, but definitely not what we were looking into. But… yeah, I think-- I mean. Maybe something did happen. He just looks kinda sad.”

 _God,_ and that’s another thing. “He only looks at you like that, Tim,” he says, tapping his pen nervously on the desk. “He’s plainly avoiding me, which is fine, but Sasha--”

“It was kind of weird when he forgot who I was. But he did shatter his glasses and slam his head into the wall, soo..” She grimaces a little in memory of Jon’s collapse, but doesn’t look otherwise swayed. 

There’s a silence, then Tim says, “If we have to do a concussion test on him, I get dibs on holding him down.”

“What, do you _want_ to get attacked? He’s like a grouchy little cat, he’ll kill you,” snorts Sasha, leafing through some papers. 

“Hey, scratches are hot,” Tim replies impishly, making Martin’s face burn. He frantically turns back to his own desk to avoid the others getting a look at his blush. 

Sasha scoffs, affronted, and punches him in the arm. “Gross. Jon will absolutely report you to HR, you know.”

“Hasn’t yet!” he chirps, and just like that, the other two forget about it.

  
  
  
  


Martin’s doing busywork when Jon comes out with the file, writing the full reports of the discredited statements for the last few days. For having literally no experience, Martin likes to think he’s pretty alright at the actual research-- which is to say, entirely subpar, but getting it done. Still, he prefers the busywork, the menial tasks that don’t require much but the ability to wield a computer or pen. It’s safer, more useful. He only gets through the full discrediting process about once a week to Tim and Sasha’s four or five, so he just settles in for the reports and churns them out.

Jon pokes his head in, hand on the door frame, and calls, “Sa-- Oh.” Sasha is out in the break room, getting tea, and Jon just freezes. 

“Um. Hm.” His eyes flick between Martin and Tim for a couple of seconds, lips pursed, before settling on Tim and taking a couple steps inward. “New statement to follow up on. 0101811, it went on tape.” 

Tim gives a joking little grimace and shudder. The tape recorder statements are both a blessing and a curse-- they’re honestly _terrifying,_ but it’s a nice break from the monotony of joke statements. “Right-o, bossman,” he says, putting the file on top of his other work and turning back to his computer. 

When Jon lingers, Tim looks back up curiously. His brow is furrowed, dragging one of those circular marks by his brow into a bit of an oval. They almost look like faded scars, or an echo of one. After opening and closing his mouth a couple of times, he gives a little, “Right. Yes. Ah, thank you,” and wanders off.

“Uh?” says Tim into the empty air where Jon was standing, a confused smile on his face. He glances at the file, then picks it up again, leafing through it. “ _Oohh_. Yeah, alright.” He looks up at Martin, who has been badly pretending not to watch. “It’s spiders, that’s why he’s all freaked about it.”

“Oh!” Martin feels himself light up. “I-- I love spiders! Can I help? Or,” he says, regretting it immediately. He’s no good at the follow up, even if he likes it. He tries his best, obviously, and it’s a little easier on the tape-recorded statements, the only ones that seem to have any merit to them-- the ones that Martin can physically investigate-- but it’s never good enough. More often recently he finds he drifts into illegal territory in order to bring something decent back, but. Eh, you know? He already lied on his CV. Might as well add a little breaking and entering! Ah, his life is a mess.

“I’d give you the whole case if Jon wouldn’t get on my arse for it,” Tim says, eyes skimming the page. “Do you wanna send out the interview emails? I’m still combing the records for ‘Antonio Blake.’” He rolls his eyes. All the contact details on that weird Gertrude case have been turning out dud, so Tim says.

“I don’t know why Jon didn’t just accept that it was a fake name.” Martin takes the file. “I mean-- this is the Magnus Institute. People don’t particularly like being associated with us.”

Tim groans. “It’s ‘cause this is a tape-recorded statement. He’s all clingy and secretive about them.”

The statement is both less and more about spiders than Martin thought. He’d sort of been expecting, like, murderous spiders? Not a woman… turning into one. “They’re pretty horrible, to be fair. I’d want all the details checked too.” _Annabelle Cane,_ he turns the name around in his mind.

“Absolutely _spooky._ ”

Rolling his eyes, Martin whaps him on the arm. “Come on, you’re just provoking him now.”

Scandalized, Tim gasps. “Me? Teasing Jon for hating the mere word spooky? I would never!”

He sighs, somewhere between fond and exasperated.

“Dear, little old me? _Provoking--_ ”

Sasha chooses this moment to come to his rescue, covering Tim’s mouth from behind. Tim, too caught up in his performance, hadn’t even noticed her enter, and tips his head back to look up at her with utter betrayal across his face. “Quiet, Tim,” she says, eyes sparkling with laughter.

  
  
  
  


They get the email from Dr. Bates-- the main researcher-- pretty quick. _Absolutely not,_ she writes, which, yeah, fair. Voight’s response is uh… a little weird, but they do get a yes. ‘I don’t think I have a choice,’ is a little strong, but hey! An accepted interview request is an accepted interview request. Surrey gets back to them a little after Voight does, politely but insistently denying their inquiries and investigation requests, which Martin stares at for a little while. 

It’s not like they can’t get plenty of information without going to Surrey’s campus. The news covered the incident _extensively._ Maybe the conclusions they drew were weird, but the information’s there. What would even be gathered from going? It was a useless request, even the official stance on the incident was in all the papers: zip. And yet.

He still wants to check it out.

Curiosity's sake, really. It’s just-- he really likes spiders! And the whole thing is terrifying, but in a way that sort of intrigued him? Usually the statements just give him nightmares, not weird urges to, what, wander the halls of a university? 

Man, he really hopes this isn’t his complex about not finishing school coming back to bite him.

Tim’s hand clapping his shoulder jerks him out of it. The man is leaned over his shoulder, bent dramatically over to look at Martin’s screen. “Oh? So _that’s_ what you’ve been staring at.”

“Lord, Tim-- don’t startle me like that,” Martin grumbles, shrugging Tim off him. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says brightly, turning to sit on the edge of Martin’s desk. For a long moment, Tim just.. looks at him. Searching. “Hm.”

“Um.”

A mischievous glint is in his eye. “You want to go to the university anyway, don’t you."

Martin stammers. “I want to-- what says I want to-- that doesn’t matter? They denied our investigation, Tim.”

Tim raises his brows challengingly. A grin starts to spread on his face, the kind Martin knows means trouble. “Oh? Objecting to a little breaking and entering, are you Martin?”

The, “ _Breaking and_ \--” that slips out of his mouth, offended at the accusation, is unintentional and a bold-faced lie. Yes, Martin occasionally… enters. Illegally. He can admit that to himself. “There’s usually no breaking involved,” he mutters, sulking a little.

Tim just snorts. “I’m down for a little entering if you are. Maybe even a little breaking! Sasha’s got the jump on me in the number of crimes this goddamn job’s gotten us doing.”

Startled, Martin chokes. “Are-- are you two.. competing? For the number of crimes you can commit?”

“Duh,” says Tim breezily. He’s pulled out his phone, scrolling through what looks to be a text conversation. He pauses to lift his head and call, “Sash? Did you catch up to Martin yet? I can’t find our last count.”

Sasha turns from where she’d been insistently ignoring them. Of the three of them, she’s usually the one actually working. “I’m two behind him. It’ll be one soon if I don’t get a response back about the Timothy Hodge report.” She huffs. “Martin’s in the lead, and _you’re_ still very behind, Tim.”

“I’m what?” Martin balks.

“In the lead,” Tim affirms. He scrunches his nose. “Hacker,” he hisses at Sasha in mock-distaste. “Apparently seduction ‘isn’t a crime anymore, Tim, and neither is being hot, sooo--’”

His looks might not be a crime, but his Sasha impression certainly is. Martin levels him with a glare that he takes back at Tim’s laugh, and says, “I-- I don’t-- It’s not a crime. I just sort of… stumble into places, and people don’t stop me.”

“It’s the baby face,” Tim muses, reaching out to pat Martin’s cheek. “All innocent, non-threatening and cute. I’ll have to take notes.” Martin’s face heats. Tim says _'non-threatening’_ like Martin isn’t taller and larger than him. Sure, Tim’s got great muscles, but..

“And-- And Surrey is an hour away!” Martin protests in vain.

Tim shrugs. “Out of the institute for a couple hours. Here, did we ever get back to Voight? Let’s ask him to meet us near Surrey for an interview, and then we wander in.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Martin goes silent. He’s not sure why he’s protesting-- well, no. He’s protesting because it’s objectively dumb idea, and even if Jon’s all.. concerningly nice, he’ll be pissed. But he does want to go. _Besides,_ something whispers in his head, _Jon was being weird about it. There’s something there._ “Fine,” he relents, and regrets it a little at Tim’s whoop.

Sasha and Tim provide background noise in the form of their bickering as he sends the relevant emails, feeling just a little embarrassed about the crime thing. And more than a little proud. And then kind of embarrassed that he’s proud, and so on and so forth until he gets up and goes to make tea. Something to do with his hands that isn’t _crime,_ and-- yeah, okay. Okay. He’s absolutely not doing this.

He talks himself out of the whole thing while the tea steeps, frowning. Because Martin has some sense, thank you very much, and even if he does a little less than legal activity, it’s not like this. 

It’s not premeditated, or, or planned. He just sort of, sees things. Wanders places. Asks people and they let him in. Because he looks dumb and soft and harmless, and he-- is! He’s not a criminal, and the fact that he’s at the top of whatever _leader board_ there is just shows that his coworkers aren’t either. Obviously. Of course. Duh. This was a dumb plan, and it’s not like they were even going to go through with it, he shouldn't have sent that email. 

Lord, if he deletes it now, will Voight respond? He really should do that, or send another email telling him to ignore it, or,

He nearly bumps face first into Jon when he tries to get into the assistant's bullpen. He _does_ spill half of Jon’s own tea on his jumper. “Sorry,” he says automatically. Before the fear has a chance to process. Then, “Christ! Oh god, oh god-- I’m so sorry, Jon, I’ll--” he turns to run back to the break room, grab a towel, but Jon’s hand on his arm stops him. 

“Martin, Martin-- It’s, please stop, it’s fine,” Jon says, stiff but bordering on frantic and quickly drawing back his hand. There’s something distressed in his face. Martin’s so shaken by the sight of him, oddly vulnerable, half reaching towards him, and deeply uncomfortable, that he falls silent. Jon and ‘vulnerable’ don’t belong in the same _paragraph._

Jon clears his throat. “I-- I’ll clean up by myself. It’s fine, I’m-- sorry. I’m sorry.” He draws back but doesn’t pull up the walls he usually has (had, _before_ ), and doesn’t actually move.

Martin might be staring. After a second, he just says, “Me and Tim will be out, tomorrow. Tomorrow, at, um, Surrey. Follow up.” 

“Tim and I,” Jon says automatically. Then he blinks. “That’s-- that’s the correct-- never mind. Yes, thank you I’ll--” and he practically sprints past Martin. 

“Lord,” Martin hears him mutter down the hall, angry and miserable, “Why was I _like that--_ ”

A few long seconds later, Sasha pulls Martin out of his stupor with a, “Huh.”

He shakes his head. All the adrenaline of fucking something up with Jon, the childhood terror of being scolded that Jon always managed to dredge back up, had gone chilly at Jon’s reaction. The last time Martin spilled tea on him, he’d blown up. Really, it was a whole production. Martin cried, Jon screamed. Rosie had to come down and check on them. “That was… weird, wasn’t it? Right?”

Sasha’s at her desk, with Tim on top of it, and both of them are staring. “Yeah. That was weird,” confirms Sasha, pensive.

“That’s not even, like…” Tim can’t seem to find an end to the sentence. “What _was_ that?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, discordantly calm. “Um. I guess I’ll.. get back to work?”

And so he does. Sits down at his desk and pulls out the files he was working on, and just. Works. Jon doesn’t make another appearance and Tim and Sasha are quiet, and eventually he gets that email back from Voight, so he leans over to Tim’s desk and says, “We’re, um, we’re meeting Voight at the Starbucks on campus. Got the email.”

Tim’s head tilts, looking like a confused dog. Half the time he’s more puppy than man, Martin swears. “You already told Jon we were going,” he says. “I thought you already got it?”

Martin feels a little bite of shame, and covers it with a laugh. “Oh, um! I just needed something to say? I actually talked myself out of it, I don’t know.. why I said that. Sorry, you don’t have to--”

“I pestered you into it, Martin, I’m _coming,_ ” says Tim with a fond roll of his eyes, and Martin cracks a smile.

So, the next day, Tim is waiting with his car and a plan. “Alright,” he says, revving the engine. Martin buckles his seat belt and pesters Tim to do so as well as he painstakingly explains what they’re going to do. Sasha will be sending the police reports to him remotely, he’ll be printing and reviewing them while Martin stakes out the building. Tim will join, they’ll confront whatever horrible monster surely must be lurking in the Surrey halls after five years, and they’ll get out by lunch to meet with Mark Voight. Martin finds this all well and good, but:

“Tim, you know you’re not… committing a crime, in this plan."

He blinks. “I’m committing a crime! We’ll be in the building with some illegality, probably.”

“Yeah, but we’re not… going to find anything? So it’s not going to take long enough for you to, you know, join me. And Sasha definitely didn’t get those files legally, so you’re-- you’re still falling behind.” He decides not to point out that this honestly doesn’t require Tim to come at all, because he rather likes Tim’s presence, actually. 

Martin’s still not even sold on the crime competition, but the crestfallen realization that paints Tim’s face is worth it. “Oh god. I’m not… committing a crime? I’m not committing a crime.”

As they begin to pull out of the street, Martin snickers at him. “Your whole plan is falling before your eyes. You could always do some murder, if you want to get ahead.”

Tim casts him a gleaming eye and says, “I’ll consider your suggestion,” with a threat that makes Martin giggle, covering his mouth. He takes that opportunity to start up the radio, blasting something indie-rock and vaguely unlike Tim, but not so strange that it doesn’t slot nicely into Martin’s schema for him. The volume is a little too high to actually carry a conversation, but they do it anyway.

Talking with people is always sort of difficult for Martin, especially with the kind of people as quick and comfortable as Tim, who shoots playful jabs and dry, pseudo-serious absurdities at him too fast for him to process. Martin’s learned how to stumble through interaction with Tim for long periods of time, and is only a little thrown for a loop when he suddenly yanks the conversation into: “So what’s the new thing you’re researching? Spiders?”

“Wh-- what?” 

“I mean, you seemed pretty eager to go on this case, plus whatever you’re doing in file storage. Carrying out some secret side project Elias won’t let Jon do himself?”

Martin furrows his brow. “I-- Jon’s avoiding me, why would I be doing a project for-- Tim, I’ve literally _never_ been in the Archive filing room.” 

“What?” Tim takes his eyes off the road to actually look at Martin. “No?”

“I think-- maybe I went there during the tour, after transfer? But I don’t go _in_ there. It’s terrifying.” There’s some horrible dread that sinks it’s way into Martin’s heart when he even gets near the Archives Proper, where all the files are kept. More so than the rest of the institute, or even the rest of the Archives, it’s just… viscerally upsetting. He doesn’t need to, so he doesn’t.

Tim’s frowning, actually frowning, and turns down the music to a low hum. “Never? Not, like, yesterday?”

“No?”

“And you’re not fucking with me? I don’t care if you did, or anything,” Tim says, and Martin feels anxiety prick at his chest.

“ _No,_ Tim. Only you and Sasha go in there. I’m pretty sure Jon thinks I’m going to burn it down if I get near anyway.” When Tim doesn’t respond, Martin asks, “Tim?”

There’s something disquieted in his expression. “...That’s a.. problem.”

“What do-- wh-- _Tim_?”

“I think, uh.. Something is pretending to be you?” His voice is strained with the effort it takes to stay light.

Martin blinks. “Something is pretending to be me,” he echos. “Me? Really.”

“Yeah.” Tim laughs, a little hollow. “I was getting the next batch of files to sort through, and I-- thought I saw you? It was way further in and I called out for you and it just said _Oh! Sorry Tim! I’ll be right back,_ and it was-- _your_ voice.”

“...Your impression of me is terrible.”

Tim swats him. “That _thing’s_ impression of you was better. That really-- I’m not shitting you on this. That wasn’t you?”

He shrugs, pulling in on himself. “I-- no, I don’t… I wasn’t there. That wasn’t me.” Then, “Does this-- do you think this has to do with.. the Jon thing?”

“Cool,” says Tim, blowing out air. Something in his eyes is so dark that Martin shies away, looking out the window. “Christ. I don’t know. Something… killed and replaced him, and came out the other end _nicer_? Now it’s… after you?”

Martin can’t help a nervous huff of laughter. “That’s really-- uh! That’s very upsetting. Um.”

“Text Sasha about it,” Tim says immediately. “Make a chat or something-- I don’t. I don’t like that she’s alone there with it. With _them._ ”

“Jon’s still-- we don’t have any proof that Jon’s different,” Martin protests, but he’s taking out his phone, setting up the chat. “It could be nothing. This whole thing is ridiculous.”

Tim sends him a look. “Weren’t you the one insisting something was wrong with Jon?”

He huffs, fingers texting away. “Yeah, but not murdery monsters. Just. You know. Weirdly becoming less of a prick, and also right handed.”

_you > hello sasha! tim thinks theres something dangerous in the archives _

“Right handed?”

“Oh. Um, yeah I noticed that he’s… using his right hand, now? I didn’t-- I didn’t know if it was weird to mention.” His phone chimes.

_Sasha > Well duh. The sense of impending doom isn’t for nothing. Is there something specific? _

Quickly Martin is caught between explaining all his other findings to Tim and Sasha, relaying the whole situation to her, and letting Tim dictate his concerns until they pull into a shopping center two blocks from their destination. Tim grumbled about it but it was closer to the library he was printing the police reports in anyway, so he relented.

Sasha assured them about six times that she’s fine and nothing has tried to murder or impersonate her since her stint in Artifact Storage, and without much else to do about it… the Martin-impersonator and Jon-qualms sort of fell to the wayside.

Pretty soon, Martin finds himself with a Surrey university pamphlet in his hands, wandering as he tries to make sense of the map. The Psych department should be pretty close, and soon enough-- yep! 

He’d had to cross reference the statement with the news articles about it, but he finds the building easily enough, and nobody _stops_ him when he goes through the front doors. 

When Tim calls, mostly to ramble, Martin keeps his racing pulse off his face and smiles at a passerby. “I’m still pissed that I’m the only one staying entirely legal,” he points out, far too loudly for a library or a phone call.

“Do one, coward,” he snips back, regretting it immediately. An older woman is staring at him quizzically. “Mhm?” he says to nothing, just to get her off his back. His eyes keep catching on the patches of gossamer spider’s thread in the corners, dulled into gray. “Yeah, of course. Elizabeth Fry building? Just waiting on you!”

“What?” says Tim haltingly on the other end.

Martin turns the corner, trying his best not to hurry as he moves out of earshot. “Sorry, sorry, um. People were looking-- can you please stop talking about crime?” He stops in a corner, peering into one of the webs. “This place is chock full of cobwebs, by the way. But… old. Unmaintained.”

“Spooky.”

“ _Tim._ ” 

Honestly, Martin was planning on hanging around the Fry building until Tim arrived or someone kicked him out, just to let Tim on the crime scheme. Not that he was doing much, but, well.

Those plans are dashed when he looks up and finds that he’s nearly run face first into someone. “Oh, sorry,” he says, giving a nervous smile and moving to duck around her. When he gets a look at her eyes, he freezes. 

They’re black. 

Not the iris, but the sclera too-- black and shimmering, the same shade as her lipstick.

“Hello,” she says. It’s not friendly. She turns around to walk away and Martin finds that he’s following her wordlessly.

They make it a block away before Martin breaks the trance enough to speak, stammering out a couple of _erm_ s that have her frowning at him in irritation. “Where-- I’m sorry, just, where are we going?” His feet are still moving, still carrying him with her. Something about the way she moves is profoundly wrong.

She doesn’t respond. Martin finds himself staring at the face of the Starbucks halfway across campus. The one he’s supposed to meet Voight in. Then he’s inside, settling into a booth, and she’s frowning at him. “Did they send you.”

“I’m--” Martin finds his voice has been released. “I’m sorry?”

She’s crossed her legs under her long plaid skirt, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed over her head. The scarf doesn’t match her skirt and the blouse has lace clinging to the edges, and Martin thinks _Annabelle Cane_ frantically. “The Archivist and its _thing._ ”

“The-- wh...” The whole situation barely feels real, and Martin just stares at her in bewilderment. “Are you Annabelle? I mean, Annabelle _Cane_?”

However irritated she is, her expression had held some sparkling amusement before. Here, she lets it fall flat. He can practically hear the _duh_ slap him across the face, and she sighs. “Would you like something to drink?”

“..n.. no?”

“I’m getting you something to drink,” she hums, and promptly walks off. The line for drinks disperses in front of her like a parting sea, and Martin has absolutely no clue why he hasn’t gotten up and sprinted away. Annabelle comes back after a few minutes with one of those terrible Starbucks teas and some drink deep purple and unidentifiable. She pushes the tea towards him and says, “You’ve not seen the thing the Archivist keeps with it lately?”

 _The thing in the back of Archives?_ Martin thinks, but does not voice. “No. I’ve-- I’ve only heard about it.” Or… doesn’t mean to voice, anyway. “I’m not here on Jon’s orders, or anything? I mean, I’m doing-- I’m doing follow up, but he didn’t even ask.”

“Then you’re no use.” She frowns, sipping at her purple drink. It feels like a horribly awkward first date, except Martin might be about to die. “But you’re also not a threat. Blind spots, you see,” she says almost apologetically, like Martin will nod in sympathy and understanding. “I do hate to meet you under these circumstances. I’d warn you to be wary, but you know that already. Don’t you?” When she tilts her head, blonde curls fall away just a fraction. He sees spider’s silk lacing the side of her skull underneath it.

He swallows. “I-- I think I do. Yeah.”

Annabelle nods, the light of humor back in her eyes. “Don’t look so pale, Martin dear. The Mother has plans for you yet, I’m sure. No matter the new variables.” 

There’s so much to unpack in her words that Martin doesn’t even bother. Even looking at her eyes for too long makes him feel genuinely faint, so he drops his gaze to her lips and watches them split open into what might be a smile. 

Lord, she has _fangs._

“You should drink that tea. Keep your blood sugar up,” she advises, pushing herself out of the booth. She’s barely had any of her drink, but when he tries to say so, the words won’t come. “Wouldn’t want to pass out, would we?”

 _No, not particularly,_ he thinks, and then he thinks nothing.


	2. something about this entering is probably illegal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Martin wakes up, it’s to Tim’s hand on his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [overwhelmed noises] thank yall so much for the positivity.... i got all the comments n i went "oh god my plot is NOT good enough for this" so i reworked it a bit. along came a spider, ft. 100% more annabelle cane!
> 
> anyway sorry for leaving martins situation so dire last time he's fine lmao

When Martin wakes up, it’s to Tim’s hand on his arm. “Martin?”

“Oh-- oh! Hi, Tim,” Martin says, blinking. He’s still perfectly upright in the booth, tea unopened, and Annabelle’s drink gone. The lighting has shifted and it takes him a second to realize that an hour or two must have passed, and he’s still here. Unhurt, and just fine. Actually, he feels... rather refreshed. That really wasn’t what he was expecting out of meeting a real-life night terror. He kind of thought he’d be dead.

Then again, she did take him to a Starbucks. “Was I… sleeping? Um. Sorry, I just...”

“You tell me,” Tim says, looking worried for a moment, but then his eyes slide off Martin’s and out the window. “Nearly noon, Voight should be here soon. Ha! That rhymed.”

All Tim’s concern slid off him like water, suddenly forgotten. Much the same way that Martin feels weirdly calm and distant about the whole thing, which is probably bad? The incoming panic attack is definitely brewing, but he’s probably got another two hours on it, so it’s… fine. It’s fine.

Martin considers mentioning Annabelle to him. He really should, and there’s no reason  _ not _ to, but in the end he realizes it wasn’t an option. “Maybe you should be a poet.” He snorts, enjoying his own private, inside joke. If Tim knew he wrote poetry, he might actually die. “Anything interesting in the reports?”

“Well, they haven’t arrested Annabelle, but I think we could’ve guessed that. Otherwise, I haven’t read them; I went looking for you.” Tim should sound more concerned about that, probably? 

Deciding that he doesn’t need to speed up the incoming terror, he ignores that thought. “That excited to meet Mark Voight?” he teases, nudging Tim on the shoulder.

“Absolutely not. My use of my incredible social skills for the job extends to seducing clerks and tolerating Jon, and that’s it.” He laughs as he settles himself in, flipping the case open. 

Martin pores over it with Tim until Voight arrives, a disheveled mess of a man, and locates them by description. He’s got big dark sunglasses and a painfully 2000s baseball cap as though that will hide his identity, and flinches violently for no reason at all when he sits down. “Um. Hello!” says Martin, and then, for politeness sake, “Mr. Voight, I assume?” 

“ _ Lower your voice _ ,” he hisses back, shoulders drawn up. “I don’t-- I don’t think it is safe to be here. I don’t want to be here.” Tim shoots Martin a skeptical look over the top of the folder, and Martin smiles back at him placatingly.

“Sorry about that,” Martin says, softer this time. “And really, um, thank you  _ so _ much for your time. We were just looking for your perspective on the-- incident?”

Voight’s eyes are wet, but he holds himself together better than Martin had expected from what he’d seen so far. He does burst into tears, but not until a few minutes later, when his testimony goes from rambling but useful to panicked stuttering. Martin sort of tunes him out. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just… he’s sure Voight is a very nice and sane man otherwise, but he’s a little… 

Well. The point is, Martin doesn’t catch a lot of it, but frowns and can’t help but point out, “That’s not how spiderweb works.”

“W, What?” stammers Voight, cut off.

“Um. It’s just, spider’s silk comes from the abdomen? They don’t just… puke it like that.”

Tim stares at him from over the top of the case file, brow quirked. Voight manages a, “It’s what I  _ saw _ ,” and Martin lets the matter drop with a polite smile. The rest of the testimony is largely tears, but he nods and thanks the man when it’s over, feeling a little bad as he escorts him out. 

When he gets back to the table, Tim’s still waiting, one brow quirked. “...Well.”

“Well, indeed.” Martin sighs, but sits back in the booth, glancing at his hasty notes of what Voight said. “At least he corroborated the events?” 

“At what cost,” grimaces Tim. 

Martin gives him a flick on the arm. “He’s traumatized, Tim. Let him be.”

“I suppose,” Tim says vaguely, reaching for Martin’s abandoned tea. “Why’d you get this if you’re not gonna drink it?” he asks, fiddling with the label. The police reports are long abandoned on the table, so he tucks his own interview notes into the folder.

When he tries to give Tim an honest answer, the words stick in his throat. Once, twice, he tries to manage ‘ _ I didn’t buy it _ ,’ but they choke. That anticipated panic is crawling at him. He swallows nervously and just says, “Killed my own appetite, I guess. All yours if you want it.”

“Might have to take you up on it,” Tim says, already peeling the plastic open. “Y’think this one’s real?”

“What?” asks Martin, sweeping up the whole folder. He starts herding Tim out of the Starbucks, who’s quicking working through the shoddy tea.

“The statement.” He smirks. “Despite all the  _ biological inaccuracies _ .”

Martin swats him. “It’s not my fault he doesn’t know how spiders work! But,” he clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah, I.. I do. Do you? I mean, I know Jon’ll find some way to dismiss it, but--”

Tim snorts. “Jon found a way to dismiss everything else so far. I think I believe this one. Fucked up if true, but this many statements… some of ‘em have to be real.” Then he scowls. “Besides, I think we’ve all agreed there’s something fucked up and supernatural going on back at the Institute.”

“In the Institute in general, yeah, probably. I’m still not convinced anything is trying to murder me, you know.”  _ At least, inside the Institute _ , he laughs to himself. It’s not a sound, and yet it still manages to sound a little manic. How fun.

Tim just  _ hmms _ in a way that feels like a dismissal. He calls Sasha once and seems satisfied enough that she’s safe before he starts the car up and pulls out of there. Martin, feeling sticky and snared and steadily more panicky, can’t help but be thankful.

“What are we going to do when we get back,” asks Tim. The music, cranked up loud to avoid this exact talk, nearly drowns him out.

“What we… always do, I think?” replies Martin, tilting his head with strained levity. “I mean. If there’s something in the Archives, and it’s replaced Jon-- and that’s a big if-- we don’t want him to know. And if everything’s fine, we don’t want to corner him with evidence that he’s been bloody murdered.”

Tim smiles at the incredulity that creeps into Martin’s voice. “Alright, master spy Blackwood. I’ll take your word on it,” he says, just barely less humor than the morning. 

Martin gives a nod because he doesn’t trust anything else, and stays that way until they get to the Institute. When they get through the doors, Martin flashes a smile and all but races to the cramped bathroom, red panic crawling up his chest until he can let the forced expression drop, safely locked in the single stall.

_ Being alive _ is only just starting to sink in, the sight of Annabelle’s fangs just as fresh in his mind as the moment he’d first seen them and no less woozy. The clawing terror makes Martin bite back a laugh, or maybe a whine, as he presses himself into the wall, riding the waves of adrenaline and dread. It’s not as bad as he was expecting, honestly. Compared to dying, at least.

He stumbles back into the assistants bullpen ten minutes later looking at least mostly put together. Frankly, he thinks he can be excused a little bit of mess. It’s been a long few hours, a long few weeks. Sasha gives him a sympathetic smile and Martin averts his eyes, lips pressed together as he turns back to his work. The Voight interview needs to be typed, as well as processing Jon’s expense reports, and-- really anything that doesn’t make him think of glittery black eyes and spiderwebbed skulls. 

When they reach the end of the day, Sasha pulls up to his desk, Tim on her arm like a trophy husband. “Martin! Drinks?” she says, and Tim shoves her with one shoulder.

“Reverted to talking like a caveman, Sash?”

Martin offers him a little laugh. ”If you’re going to tease, you’d better have an eloquent invitation prepped, Tim.”

“Oh god no,” says Sasha, but it’s too late. Tim’s pulled away from her and bent himself in a dramatic flourish to Martin, managing to fold himself startlingly low. “Please don’t encourage him,” she begs Martin, yanking Tim up by the back of his collar before he can speak, and when he protests, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Now… drinks?”

The tired ache of a panic passed is settling into him, and Martin’s about to refuse before he considers the alternative. Going home to his flat, alone, and being forced to ruminate. Ah. Absolutely not. “Yeah, I-- yeah, drinks sounds…” he nods. “Now?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” she says, finally releasing a Tim who has been attempting to chew through her hand like a feral dog.

After Martin packing up for the day and plenty of Tim’s whining to Sasha, the three of them pile into Tim’s car, as the only one who owns one. The pub they go to isn’t great, but it is warm-toned and warm-bodied in a way that eases the edge of the  _ weird _ going on. They dance around it, Jon and the Thing, talking about it too much and too little for any of their tastes. When three drinks in isn’t enough to get past the thick block in his mouth around the name Annabelle Cane, he gives up, slumping over the table. “I think we might’ve broken Martin,” Sasha says above him, their designated driver. “Bit much for a work night.”

“Let the man drink,” says Tim, somewhat drunker. Less drunk than Martin even three down, though, like he's used to it. When the two of them fall silent, Martin cracks an eye open to watch them have their little face conversation, back and forth looks that he can’t quite read on a good day.

“I  _ can _ still hear you,” he points out mildly, alcohol numbing the parts of him that might be offended.

“Prove it,” Tim says without a second missed, a challenging look in his eye, though Martin doesn’t know what in the name of god he might be challenging.

Sasha takes Tim’s fighting impulse as a cue to look for a check, and lets Martin and Tim have their nonsensical conversation a few more minutes before she starts ushering them out the door. Martin’s surprisingly warm and content, and despite the late-afternoon sun, Tim’s idle chatter is a good background noise to slump against the car door and drift into the black. 

He wakes up in what is definitely not Tim’s SUV. For one thing, it’s a lot softer.

An aching throb slams into his head when he opens his eyes, sensitive receptors protesting the light angrily. Groaning, he curls up further into the covers, fingers grasping around a knit blanket that sparks familiarity. He forces open his eyes just enough to recognize the blanket, the bed, and his surroundings.

Ah. Right. His own bed.

Martin allows himself a few more minutes to wallow in his self-induced misery before glancing at his bedside table for the hour, and abruptly realizes he doesn’t have time to mope. It isn’t too late to be up, but it’s late enough that he probably shouldn’t waste any time. 

With a fair bit of agony, he pushes himself into a sit. No sooner does he think,  _ Lord, I need paracetamol _ , does he notice a package sitting on his bedside table, next to a tall glass of water. He blinks at it and wonders if Sasha put it there-- did she bring him up last night? He gratefully downs three and then drags himself out of his bedroom to shower, only to stop the minute he opens his door.

Sitting on his couch, his battered copy of  _ Poems of John Keats _ in her hands, is Annabelle Cane. “Um?” he manages, just past the impulse to hide.

Looking entirely unsurprised to see him, Annabelle raises her head to him with a smile. “Morning, Martin dear.”

There are a lot of questions he could ask. There are a lot of ways he could react in general, actually, but he’s got a sneaking suspicion that anger won’t help. “Wh..y are you… in my flat,” he settles on eventually, somewhere between resigned and terrified.

“Mm,” she replies, gesturing him forward. Without thinking, he sits down in the armchair. “Who says I even know?”

“Because, presumably,  _ you made the choice to enter my flat?” _ Martin finds himself steadily creeping towards resignation rather than terror, somehow.

Annabelle, for one, seems delighted. Her eyes make his hangover throb in protest, so he looks at the spider crawling across his coffee table, squinting and trying to identify it. “Presumably! Ah, I can’t resist a chance to tease.” Then she sobers a bit. “I’m here because I have an…  _ agenda _ , and you’ve been moved up on it considerably.”

“I was-- always on it. Your agenda?” It is too early for this. It is too early and Martin’s head hurts far too much for this.

Annabelle pays no mind to his misery. “Of course.” She reaches out one carefully manicured hand and the spider on his table crawls up it to rest in her cupped palm, which she promptly offers to Martin. “ _ Amaurobius similis _ . Lace web spider.” He takes the little creature out of politeness, staring back in bafflement. “You’ve always liked spiders, haven’t you Martin? Ever since you were little, avoided cleaning out their webs because you didn’t want to hurt them. Very cute, honestly. And the  _ lying… _ you’ve always had quite the talent for manipulating others, hm? You always were the perfect candidate for the Web, and she’s had her--” Annabelle pauses, and then says, “ _ Eye _ on you,” deliberately. Like it’s a joke Martin’s supposed to get, but she just looked pleased when he doesn’t.

“I don’t--” he defends, red in the face. “I don’t  _ manipulate _ people. That’s terrible, I-- what?”

“Not for pleasure, no. It’s a defense, isn’t it? Know what to say, how to  _ act _ , to get people to back down. Look pathetic enough and maybe your mother won’t scream at you. Maybe your Archivist won’t. It’s self-defense, you’d never do it to hurt people. But murder in self-defense is still  _ murder _ , Martin.” Martin’s staring fully at her now. Affronted anger churns in his chest, warring with the self-loathing of knowing that she’s right and the overwhelming terror of how well she knows him. 

“In this analogy, you’ve gotten quite good at it, too,” she continues, intentionally blithe. “Better still at hiding the body, honestly. Very innocent looking. You know how people tick, and you know that people think you don’t.”

Martin swallows, shaking his head. “Can you stop that? I don’t-- I  _ get _ it, you’re stalking me,” he says with unexpected bravery. “The fact-- putting aside the fact that all of that was all really. Um. Unnecessarily mean? Are you… are you here to kill me? This seems like a lot if you just wanted to kill me.” She smiles, and Martin feels compelled to tack a, “Please don’t, though?” onto the end. 

Annabelle laughs into her hand, a surprisingly human noise, like she wasn’t anticipating it herself. “No. I’m not here to kill you, Martin.”

“Ooo-kay. What’s your..  _ agenda _ , then? You said I’ve been ‘moved up’? Why were you waiting to-- uh, drug me?”

She raises a brow at him. “I didn’t drug you. You didn’t even drink my tea, you know. Sort of rude.”

He jolts, gears spinning in his brain. “Wait-- wait, what’s going to happen to Tim?! He-- he drank the--”

Again, she laughs. “Nothing. Martin, that tea was sealed and bought from Starbucks. I mean, that  _ was _ me who blacked you out, but I didn’t use the drink.”

“Then how…”

“You’ve read my statement. I even sent you Voight to tell you about it. Please make the connections yourself, I know you’re smart enough to. That said…” She gives an almost pensive noise. “Well. The Mother said we needed to wait with you, that it wasn’t the right time. Now that order is gone. One can only assume that the right time is now. You’re certainly useful. I’d like to make an alliance with you, of sorts.” Martin frowns as he recognizes that she’s flattering him to win him over.

“You mind-control people. Okay. Why not mind-control me into it? What-- what do you  _ want?  _ What the hell is the Mother?”

Having forgotten it was there, Martin feels the crawl of the spider inching onto his throat. Lace web spiders aren’t  _ dangerous, _ but their bites hurt for hours, and no doubt it would be worse on his neck. They don’t even bite people that often, but lord knows Annabelle’s got the spider theme. Who knows if she controls them? 

“I’ll tell you all of that if you agree to work with me,” she promises. “I’m not actually in the habit of keeping prospective allies in the dark. You’re not as apt for the Beholding as you are the Web, but it’s got its hooks in you. You want information, don’t you?”

Martin has to bite back the irritated confusion. “You’re-- you’re not going to hurt me?”

“No. What I want from you might be dangerous, but.. mm. The Archivist is a bit of a bleeding heart. I don’t think it’ll hurt you. The _ world _ you’re stepping into is a far larger threat, but really, you’re already in it.” Her smile never falls, but she almost sounds sympathetic when she says, “I’m afraid your life has been on a timer for a number of years now. So?” Annabelle outstretches one hand to him.

Swallowing back the terror, he nods slowly. “Um. Awful. I’ll... I’ll work with you. I guess.” With that, he takes her hand. 

It’s  _ sticky _ , and he can feel something squirming and threading, writing itself into his palm, his heart. As soon as he’s able he yanks back, and his hand is covered in webbing every place Annabelle’s fingers touched. The strands break and snap, fitting themselves to match the patterns already on his palm. “What-- what was--? Nevermind. I want-- what is the thing in the Archives? You said you’d tell me.”

“Oh, I don’t know that.” Martin stares, and her smile twitches into a grin. “That’s what you’re here for. I am going to explain, though. You see…” 

And that’s how Martin spends the next half an hour, the spider idly crawling between his fingers, as she explains the entities. Er, The Entities? Are these the sort of things that need capital letters? He’s getting the impression that these are the sort of things that need capital letters. “...So you’re the Web?” he asks finally.

“Am  _ I _ the Web?” She looks amused, and Martin gives her a flat look. He’s sort of forgotten to be scared of her. “No, although I am the Web’s most prized agent.” Annabelle scowls. “Was. That  _ thing _ in the Archives has won its loyalty.”

“Why-- why did you need me, then? To sign the pact?”

“I could’ve forced you,” she says, dodging the question. “I still could, really. But in light of..  _ it _ , I’m a bit less powerful.” Her eyes are furious, but her tone is level and almost sweet.

“I feel like.. Forgive me, I just feel like that might be a good thing. Don’t you kill people?”

Annabelle regards him with a smile, but he can’t tell what she’s feeling anymore, a war of anger and amusement and something else. “Sometimes. You know me, though. You at least have a guess at what I am and what I do. Whatever is in the Archive? You don't know anything about that, and it has concerning levels of power. It’s won the Web, contained Elias somehow, and for all I know could certainly have the Archivist under its control too. That level of power isn’t won without murder, dear.”

Martin stops meeting her eyes, frowning. “Okay. I… yes, I see your point. Fine. So you--  _ we _ are working.. against the Web?”

This time the smile gracing her face is almost sad, her chuckle almost rueful. “Ah, Martin. Martin. If the Web didn’t want us to do this, the thought never would have crossed our minds.”

He sighs. “Right. Fun. Now I’m… tied to it, along with you. What if I don’t want to be?”

“Not quite with me, though you could if you chose to walk my path. You can never  _ truly _ avoid an Entity, and the Web has seen you since you were little. If you continue the way you are, courting the Web and the Eye and the Lonely, you’ll fall to one of them eventually. I suppose I’d sound biased if I told you the Web is the best choice for you?"  


“I don’t want to manipulate people. I don’t want to hurt them.” 

“If afraid that’s a given for any of them, but you don’t have to just  _ hurt _ . You’ve got a good grasp on seeing other’s manipulation, too. Shall we return to the murder analogy?” 

“I don’t really like the murder analogy, actually. Can-- can we, I don’t know, do this later?”

Annabelle nods, almost diplomatically, and then stretches. “Can I make tea?”

“Oh! I can--” he gets to his feet and freezes, seeing the time. “Oh god. I, I have to go to work. We, you-- I guess you know where I live? Shit, um.”

She stops him with a hand before going over to his cabinets with an amiable laugh. “It’s alright, don’t worry. Elias has seen all of this already, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“What.”

Holding some of Martin’s Earl Grey, she hums. “Beholding. I told you the Institute is a temple to it, and he’s at the head of it. Not an awful lot of eyes in here to look through, but, you know. Might want to start getting rid of those.”

Martin jolts. “Get rid of my eyes?!”

“No--” Annabelle snickers, light and bemused. “Well. I suppose you  _ could _ if you wanted to leave the Institute that bad, but I meant the ones around your flat. Pictures, books... He can see through them, and once they’re gone, a blindfold will do fine for your own. I don’t have any need to avoid Elias myself, though, and you shouldn’t either. He… knows quite well not to bother me and my folk.” Martin sighs loudly, headache suddenly forefront again. 

“I know,” she says in sympathy. “I am doing my best to be nice. Afraid it’s in my nature to be a bit of a prat, but I do remember how it was to discover this all.”

“...Right. So, Elias is a monster?”

“As much as I am.”

“That’s quite a bit,” Martin says in return, taking the steeping tea when she offers it. “...Do you actually puke spiderwebs?”

That makes her pause, and then give a grimacing snort. Another oddly human gesture, for all her awful eyes and sharp teeth. “Unfortunately.”

He rubs at his temples to soothe the ache, but can’t help but laugh.

Getting to work that day is something of a task, ruminating on the implications of the semi-literal deal with the devil. Also, the fact that he’s apparently been employed to the devil for the past several years. Also, about halfway through his train ride, the hangover presents him with vague nausea, and he nearly misses his stop trying not to throw up.  _ At least it won’t be spiderwebs. Yet. _

When he gets into work, he’s nearly an hour late. Jon’s too shut up in his office to notice, but Tim and Sasha look up from their work. “Oh, I thought the hangover took you out,” says Tim, who’s face brightens upon seeing him. “Where were you?”

“I had to stop him from calling you about fifteen times,” Sasha cuts in easily, elbowing him. Tim scowls at her in the way he does where his eyes betray all the sappy and caring thoughts in his head. Martin’s always appreciated that weird little thing they have, even if it makes him feel a little left out.

A little more left out, now that he knows he can’t tell the truth. Literally can’t, he finds after trying. That’s probably Annabelle’s fault. “Hangover, yeah,” he replies. “Shouldn’t have had that much on a work night.”

“Self-restraint is for people with important jobs. We file fucked up stories in a basement,” says Tim, leaning back in his chair.

“I had to stop him from bringing in a drink to work,” she adds, long-suffering.

Tim just shrugs. “Known hangover cure, Sasha.”

“Jon would  _ kill you _ ,” says Martin startled.

“Jon can judge me for my alcohol intake when we’re relatively certain that he is actually Jonathan Sims.” Sasha gives him a pointed, judging look, to which he adds, “You can judge me for my alcohol intake when we’re relatively certain that you are actually Sasha James.” 

If he looks, Martin can see the edges of Tim’s own hangover in the crease of his eyes or the strain of his smile, but he’s obviously better practiced at dealing with it than Martin, who has to settle into his work best he can.

When the usual hour Martin makes tea rolls around, he flinches at the sight of his phone screen flaring to life, and scowls at it for a moment before getting off his feet to head off for the break room.

The quiet is a nice change, even if Tim and Sasha weren’t being very loud. Just that Jon had come by to observe a few times, and he and Tim had sort of gotten into weird staring contents? It really ruined the atmosphere every time it happened, and he was glad to be without it. So imagine Martin’s chagrin when Elias Bouchard drifts his way into the room while the kettle boils.

He’s not sure if it’s the new knowledge from Annabelle that’s made him realize, or if Elias has always looked like a smug bastard, but it’s like he’s bitten a lemon. 

“Good morning, Martin.”

“Hi Mr. Bouchard,” he replies calmly. If Elias isn’t going to bring it up, he sure isn’t. “Doing your rounds of the Archives?”

He nods vaguely in response, but his eyes are on Martin’s hand. The webs have long since faded, but Martin has the creeping suspicion that he can see them anyway. “Dangerous game you’re playing there,” he says, almost conversational.

“No more dangerous than this one.” When the silence stretches, he asks, “Would you like some tea?”

Elias smiles at him like he’s a very stupid child. It’s not dissimilar to the smile Annabelle wears, like they know more than you do, but on Elias it’s singularly fucking annoying, actually.

He meets Martin’s eyes once before he says, “No, I think I’m alright. Have a good day, Martin,” and leaves the room. All of the sudden a picture of Annabelle, staring into a man’s throat as he chokes himself, face blotchy and bordering on purple, floats into his mind, foreign. 

_ Prized avatar of the Manipulation _ .

Once more he questions how he’s trusted her.

But Elias is gone and Annabelle is who knows where, so he finishes the tea and delivers some to Jon’s office like he always does. He accepts it with the same weird New Jon kindness, and Martin feels exhausted with it all when he settles back in to work on the Cane report. 

The end of the day rolls around, Tim and then Sasha file out just a little after five, but Martin stays. He came later, after all, and he… doesn’t know what to do about Annabelle, the stupid deal he’s made.  _ I don’t make a habit of keeping allies in the dark _ , she’d said. Of course she’d said it, because Martin wanted information and she could promise it to him. The stupid god he’s bound to  _ makes _ him want information, and she knew it.

Bitter shame roils in his gut. The thing is, he’d noticed the flattery, the way she was kind to him in every little way to make him drop his guard and trust her. He’d fallen for it. He’d fallen for it so fucking hard. 

Irritably, he glares at the carved eye in one of the walls. He’d noticed them almost immediately after entering the Institute that morning, patterned in the crown molding at different intervals. “Are you watching right now, weirdo?” he murmurs, too quietly to be heard. He hopes. Oh god, if he gets fired for antagonizing his monster boss he’s going to lose his mind.

The humiliation of being observed gets to him and he packs up his folders on the spot, saving his work and slamming the power button. Maybe he relishes too much the feeling of smothering the life of the computer, like holding a pillow over someone’s face. It’s the little bits of gratification, you know? Hm. That might be kind of awful, actually.

Martin pauses on his rush out of work only at the sound of Jon’s voice. Well, of course Jon is still here, it’s Jon, but the answering voice--

“I’m just saying, you’re taking the red string board thing pretty literally.” It’s  _ familiar _ . He knows exactly what Tim meant, now, when he said it sounded like him. There’s something just off about it that Martin can’t place.

“Something is  _ happening _ ,” Jon hisses in response, as Martin creeps slowly closer. “The assistants. They-- I don’t know what happened, but it isn’t the same. They’re acting differently in the last few days. I need to know what’s going on, what new variable there is--”

As Martin reaches the door to Jon’s office, he finds it open just a crack, enough to see Jon sitting at his desk in silhouette, tense and clenched. “It’s-- Jon, dear, it’s okay.” And doesn’t something in Martin flinch hearing some facsimile of his own voice calling Jon  _ dear. _

“It’s not! Martin, you don’t-- we can’t fuck this up. We can not. They  _ died _ last time,” Jon insists, voice tremulous.

“That wasn’t your fault,” the Thing replies, steely. “How would we have stopped them?”

Martin’s blood goes cold, and he suddenly remembers their group chat, fumbling for his phone.

_ does jonathan sims is jonathan sims?? _

_ you> so jon n the thing are talking i think _

_ Tim> W _

_ you> hey sasha has anything. um. weird happened? _

“I was their boss,” Jon continues through the wall. “I was supposed to be, I don’t know,  _ responsible? _ Keep them out of danger, and I didn’t-- I was awful, and Tim--”

“ _ No _ ,” says Martin’s voice, vehement. “You are not responsible for someone else's suicide.”

_ you> ?!??!?!?! ? TIM???? _

_ you> TIM ARE YOU OKAY??? _

_ Tim> Yyess? _

Martin pays half a mind to keeping Tim and Sasha aware of the situation as he presses himself to the wall, ignoring Tim’s ‘master spy Blackwood’ jokes in favor of transcribing the conversation. 

“I know, I-- I know that, just. God, Martin. Seeing them, I can’t even… I was so terrible to the other Martin. I was so terrible to  _ you _ , I don’t know why you put up with me-- I just. They can’t die. I need to know what’s going on.”

The  _ actual _ other Martin is quiet for a minute. “How much of that is you needing to Know, Jon?”

Jon’s silhouette sits back in his chair.

_ you> “i need to know” “how much of that is you needing to know” sir he just said, _

_ Sasha> I like how indignant you are at it _

_ you> it called me the OTHER martin like it didn’t just waltz into our fucking archive and kill jon????? i . >:/ _

“I don’t know,” Jon sighs. “How much?”

“...I don’t think I’ll tell you.”

Jon looks up suddenly, a faintly seen smile on his face. “How much of  _ that _ is you being of the Web, hm Martin?”

A bright chuckle rings out. “Aww, be fair: I’m pretty sure Martin wouldn’t be this much of a prat. I’ll make it up to you later, let’s get home.” There’s a pause. “Jon? Dear?”

“Spider.”

“Ah.” The speaking silhouette crosses into his sliver of vision, who kneels on the ground. “Hello, dearie. Did Annabelle send you…? Yeah, of course. We are going to have to do something about her, Jon.”

Jon pushes himself back from the desk, standing. “Yes, we… should. I’m not certain what, though.”

“Presumably the same thing we do about Martin? Whenever we get around to that.”

“... _ Martin _ isn’t trying to stalk us.”

_ you> he says, while i stand directly outside his office, stalking him, _

“Okay, that’s fair. Annabelle is definitely trying to kill me, though you’re fine. It's the stolen power that offends her, I think.”

Jon snorts. “You would know.” The other silhouette stands, and takes a step towards the door, and Martin is jolted out of his stillness.

_ you> fuckufckufkc im getting out of here _

_ Sasha> We’re around the corner. Tim insisted on being there for backup. _

Martin has never been more shamefully grateful for Tim’s increasing paranoia as he makes a break for the exit. He’s out of breath when he bursts out the exit, panting.

Tim and Sasha are waiting, car door open and engine on. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading :)


	3. perfectly legal entering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drive to Tim’s is… tense, if Martin wants to be generous about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright. i do not know how coherent this chapter is. i apologize in advance for everything in it. listen... i SAID this was gonna be weird. true to my word it's incredibly weird. thank y'all for your viewership and i apologize for my crimes against the characters! 
> 
> also i just want to point out that tim, while not a focus, has been deserving of a hug this entire time. stay strong king, do some kayaking.

The drive to Tim’s is… tense, if Martin wants to be generous about it. Sasha and Martin both ended up in the backseat in an effort to get out of the area as fast as possible, and Tim’s expression is frighteningly intense where he scowls at the road ahead of them. 

“You’re alright?” Sasha asks Martin for the second time. He’d be irritated, but to be fair, he hasn’t been able to stop shaking since he got in the car, arms wrapped around his torso and eyes shut tight.

Martin nods, throwing on a tense smile. “Yeah, yeah, just… ha, give me a minute.” Keeping his breathing steady is a task, but he manages to not go full hyperventilating breakdown in front of Tim and Sasha. Thank god for the tiny mercies.

By the time Tim’s pulled into the parking lot of Sasha’s building-- something they probably negotiated while all Martin could hear was his own heartbeat, so he’s a little startled to find them in some random neighborhood. “Alright,” Sasha claps as they step into the threshold. “We need to have a real, serious chat about this.” She attempts to shoo Tim and Martin to her couch.

Tim, for his part, immediately sets off for her kitchen. “I’m raiding your vodka,” he says darkly. 

With a sigh, Sasha says, _“Tim.”_

  
 _“Sasha,”_ he responds in kind, but he stops to glance at her. Ah. Another one of those eye conversations. Martin pointedly pretends not to feel excluded. “I’ll get you some too, Martin?”

“I’m-- I’m not going to, uh… no thank you,” Martin stammers, attempting another smile. Tim’s expression flickers from Martin to Sasha, and then he turns and stalks into the kitchen.

Sasha gives another short little sigh and sits down, gesturing Martin to settle beside her. “So you’re in danger.”

“I’m…” Martin grimaces. “I don’t think either of them want to hurt me, particularly.”

“Did they not… threaten you,” she replies, one brow raised.

“It wasn’t a threat! I just-- I mean. I just don’t think they would hurt me. Or at least, it’s presumptuous to assume they will.”

In the doorway, Tim reappears. “Ri-ight,” he drawls, voice flat. _“‘We’re going to have to do something about Martin’_ isn’t a threat at all. Duh.” He crosses to flop on the couch on the other side of Sasha, putting two of three glasses he’s juggling on the table. At Sasha’s look, he raises his free hand in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t look at me like that, I just got water. Swearsies.”

“Thank you,” she replies, genuinely relieved. Martin spares a second to wonder about that before putting it aside and nearly draining one of the cups. “And, I do agree. That sounded a lot like a threat, Martin.”

He wrings his hands, watching Tim draw his knees up to curl against the arm of the couch. “Martin, it’s not Jon with your doppelganger, it’s some _thing_ wearing his skin,” he says with a scowl.

Sasha winces, says, “Tim,” very low.

He’s right, though, Martin knows. Even Annabelle had never once called him Jon; she always referred to him as the _Archivist._ An _it._ Martin sighs. “Right. I know that, logically, I guess, just…” he would really like to pretend his life is normal. Or, at least like, baseline-level weird.

“It’s alright. I just, we have to work this out.” Faint frustration crosses her face, and she leans in, all business. “Did you see the thing that wasn’t you?” She gestures him closer, not enough that the three of them are touching, but close enough that the distance isn’t stiff.

Martin shakes his head. “I didn’t see it, other than a vague silhouette that… could have looked like me, I guess. Just heard its voice. It sounded like me but, like--” he looks to Tim for help. “Not.”

“Not like an impression of you, but like you were doing an impression,” Tim supplies, to which Martin fervently nods.

“Weirdly familiar. It sounds like someone meshed my voice together with someone else's, but I can’t tell who’s.”

That gets a blink from Tim. “Familiar? I mean… yeah, I know what you’re referring to, I just don’t know how familiar it was.” 

Martin just shrugs.

“So the Thing That Is Not Martin and The Thing That Is Not Jon-- jeez, we need shorter names for them-- are in the Archives and technically our boss, and we have to prevent them from… hurting Martin, hurting us, and then hurting others.”

“I-- why am I at the top of your priority list?” asks Martin, and then, “We’re calling it ‘the other Martin’ because I am absolutely still bitter. And, and Jon is… I mean, there’s no other Jon right now.”

Tim barks a laugh. “Okay. So we’ve got the-other-Martin and the-thing-that-isn’t-Jon-but-the-real-Jon-is-gone-so-it’s-just-Jon.”

“That sentence was entirely incomprehensible,” Sasha says, snorting into her water. “I don’t suppose we could enlist Elias’ help for this?”

“No,” says Martin immediately, thinking, _he’s a monster._ Then, “Well-- maybe?”

After all, it had been Elias who reminded him that Annabelle is also a monster. Was he helping, though? Is he doing anything? Annabelle had said the other Martin had Elias ‘contained.’ Does that mean Elias is on the other Martin’s side, or simply powerless to move against it?

Is the other Martin even a force they’re supposed to be opposing?

“Of course it is,” Martin murmurs to himself. “It.. they killed Jon,” he reminds himself. Tim looks at him, confused, and Martin realizes he said that in the middle of Tim’s sentence.

“Sorry?” asks Tim, tilting his head. The scowl lines have faded from his face but there’s still worry and darkness in his expression.

Martin smiles and brushes his own words off with a nervous apology, and gives a little more effort to listen as Tim jumps back into what he was saying. He ends up a bit busy… ruminating about it. In the end it seems simple. The other Martin is something to be opposed, and Elias can’t or won’t help them.

And Annabelle, presumably, can and wants to. 

Being manipulated is not something that’s new to Martin. He’s been through it his whole life, and he always has been good at spotting it; Even Annabelle pointed it out. Every action someone takes is something calculated to get one thing or another anyway, even if they don’t realize it, and Martin is keenly aware of that. He’s always been good at figuring out what people want from him, too. Martin’s mother wants him to go away. Tim wants Martin to admire him. Sasha wants Martin to keep the peace. He’s good at all those things. He’s good at doing what people want from him.

Honestly, he’s perfectly fine doing what people want for the most part, and Martin’s not so dumb as to do something that would hurt him. He’s met real, intentional manipulators, who wanted to hurt and use him, and he’d seen through them sooner or later and stepped away. Not without harm, but he did it. He knows manipulators now-- Annabelle, and, he suspects, Elias. Maybe the thing that isn’t Jon, too, but… lord, something about him is so sad that Martin doubts it. Getting involved with them is definitely a bad idea, but what’s he supposed to do. Quit? Call the police on the affable spider woman who broke into his house? 

It’s just that he doesn’t know what the hell any of them want, or rather, _why._ Elias wants him to stop working with Annabelle. Annabelle wants him to accept The Web and work against the other Martin. The Jon-thing and the other Martin… want… Annabelle to stop spying on them. That’s all he knows.

He doesn’t even know that Jon’s been replaced at all, technically. 

What he does know is that Jon and the other Martin let a _lot_ slip in their discussion, and they haven’t even considered any of it. Lord, he-- he needs a second opinion. 

He tunes back in properly to what Tim and Sasha are discussing: pinpointing when exactly the change happened. As soon a lull in the conversation appears, Martin picks his head up. “I think we’re not acknowledging something here.” Once their eyes are on him, he says, “I mean, Tim, are you feeling particularly suicidal, or, or anything?”

Tim pauses. “Uhh, not lately?” he huffs, laughing in the grim way that you do about your own messy mental health.

Martin gives a commiserating snort and then sobers. “They, they said _last time_ , and that-- I mean, I just think that it was kind of… Jon looked genuinely distressed, like he’s been in the office, and, and bringing up a, a suicide-- that’s sort of specific? And they said I wasn’t stalking them, when I was, so that couldn’t have been a farce to fool me.

“Unless it was? Did they say that just because they wanted me to think they were, like, time travelers? What the hell does _last time_ mean, actually, I,” Martin’s voice pitches higher and higher until Sasha puts a hand on his arm, and he sputters to a stop. “Sorry, sorry, I’m getting sort of, um. In my head about all of this. I just think there’s something more going on than murder attempts.”

Tim’s expression shifts into a frown, like he wants to dismiss Martin but can’t. “Yeah, I… there is that.”

A moment of silence passes between them. “Let’s make a chart. I’m going to make a fucking chart about this, a list,” says Sasha, standing up. “If nothing else, this nonsense can be organized.”

With her stalking off to go grab a whiteboard, Tim and Martin end up sprawled across the couch with Tim hanging upside down off it. “This is so fucked up,” Tim grumbles, and Martin nods.

When Sasha comes back, they start with a coherent list of what’s going on. It’s nice, fun almost, with Tim and Martin readjusting into dumber and closer positions. Sasha starts on her feet, but she joins them in their puddle soon enough. The graphic is coherent and Sasha is a good organizer, and it makes sense, they’re getting somewhere, but… Martin’s not being honest.

He just-- he still can’t talk about Annabelle. He wants to, the chart is inconceivably barren without the knowledge of the Entities, but he can’t say it. Even saying what the other Martin had said about Annabelle feels like talking through cotton, the strings Annabelle holds on his tongue only allowing the information through begrudgingly. He starts, “I,” and tries to force it out of his throat, just anything, a simple, _I met Annabelle._ It just sticks in his throat.

Tim and Sasha’s eyes are both on him, Sasha’s brow furrowed as his jaw works. Frustrated tears spring to his eyes. “Martin? Are you…. alright?”

 _I met Annabelle. I met Annabelle and she wants something from me and Elias is a monster and--_ He blinks hard once and wipes his eyes, stammering a little before he settles on, “Sorry. This is… it’s just scary.” Tim leans into his shoulder in sympathy, and Martin hates himself for how calculated his response was. He didn’t have to-- to sell it like that. Manipulation for benign means is still manipulation. _Murder is still murder, Martin._ “I think we need a plan of some sort? I think it would be best if-- I just want, want to know how we’re going to proceed.”

Sasha nods once, sitting up properly. “We still don’t have enough information,” she says, staring forlornly at their whiteboard. “We have to lay low with this, it’s… weird. Weird, and I don’t want us to end up like one of those _weird_ statements.” Tim grimaces at her side. “Let’s wait until tomorrow, at least. They might have seen you, we don’t know how they’ll react to that.”

“I really don’t like that we have to wait,” Tim grumbles, but even he reluctantly agrees. “What’s plan B? The emergency escape?”

Sasha puts a grin on her face, the kind that sets Martin at ease despite it all. Wiping off the board with her sleeve, she proclaims, “An extraction plan, Timothy Stoker, will need another chart.”

And chart they do, for the next.. half an hour before it devolves from _serious backup plan_ into _and then we tie up Jon but careful not to gag him because we all know he has a voice kink--_ “Tim!”

The next day, Martin wakes up on Sasha’s couch. Tim’s ridiculous getaway plan involving moving to the states and changing their names had spiraled into a long story throughout the night, and by the end it had been late and… when Sasha offered, well. Martin didn’t actually want to go home. He didn’t want to face Annabelle.

There’s still a spider sitting on his chest when he wakes up, almost judgemental. 

Between the three of them, they manage to put together three work-appropriate outfits by the time they head out for the morning. Martin has to admit, Tim looks good in Sasha’s skirts. It’s more than a little suspicious for the three of them to come in together, but Martin’s gotten the impression that the rest of the staff just ignore it when things happen in the Archive. Sure enough, their eyes skitter away from the trio as they head into work.

Jon, for once, is _not_ in the office when they get there. “I think that’s the most compelling argument for Jon being replaced,” Martin mutters under his breath.

When Jon does come in, he waves on his way to his office. “Morning, all,” he says, about as cheery as Jon ever gets. Which is: not much, but leagues more than he used to be.

Tim is the one who answers, staring up at him flatly. “Jon.” It’s said like it could feasibly be a greeting, but it’s cold enough that Martin flinches.

Jon… crumbles. It’s excruciating to watch his face go from pleasant to confused to this awful, miserable resignation before he shakes and gathers himself back up, stammering. “Um. I-- sorry? I’m-- I’m sorry, I.” Jon swallows, “Right. Right, yes,” he says, and then flees into his office.

The three assistants sit in silence for a moment. Tim’s hard expression has been wiped completely off his face, replaced by a confused guilt. “Was I.. that mean? I didn’t mean to be that cold. Shit.”

“A little off-putting, but not mean,” says Sasha, frowning at the doorway. “Definitely wasn’t laying low about our suspicions, but…”

Martin sends a report to the printer for an excuse, and says, “I’m. I’m going to check on him.”

A quick stop to the printer to grab the files and he finds himself knocking at Jon’s door. There’s a silence long enough that he calls quietly for him, asking, “Jon?” 

“Sorry, yes, come in,” he responds from inside, and Martin steps in. There’s a tremble to Jon’s hands where he’s holding his pen, sick anticipating fear visibly thrumming through him. 

“Hi, just… I finished up the Cane report.” He wonders absently how this thing that is maybe Jon, the Archivist, would react to his deal with Annabelle. “Also, I wanted to see if you were alright? You looked reaallyy, um, startled?”

He nods quickly, taking the report and flipping through it. “Yes, I’m.. I’m fine, just.” His voice wavers a little, and his eyes dart up to meet Martin’s. “Did I-- Did I do something? To Tim? He…” Jon looks back down.

“Oh, Tim? Tim’s just sort of bitchy this morning. Um, don’t… repeat this? But he’s just hungover,” he lies, suppressing a wince. _Murder is murder, Martin._ “We went out for drinks. For what it’s worth, he didn’t mean to spoooo… startle you. Startle.”

Jon’s mouth quirks at Martin’s redirection, slouching in relief. “Right. Sorry, thank you, I just…” he exhales, scribbling something on a sticky note to attach to the files. “Thought I did something wrong. As your boss, I know I’ve not been the most… well, but… Lord. I just thought I managed to piss you all off. Apologies.”

“It’s fine, Jon,” he assures, to Jon’s tight smile. “What’s the note?” Leaning forward, he can’t help but try to catch a glimpse.

He hums. “We tried to contact Cane, she refused an interview, predictably.” 

Martin tilts his head, pausing. He could tell. Tell Jon. He could. Well, no, but he could _try_ , and-- “Oh?” he all but squeaks. “You.. you spoke to her too?”

There. A clue, that’s a clue, this is an awful idea and-- he sees it catch in Jon, a pause as he looks up at Martin quizzically. His heart hammers. There’s something objectively inhuman in his eyes, faintly green behind the brown, and dread sinks its way into his heart. “Too?”

“I just meant--” Martin says, finding the truth expectedly stuck in his throat. Finding that he both wants to and desperately does not want to tell this thing that is maybe Jon the truth. “Along with whatever other witnesses you spoke to? What do you-- why do--”

But Jon’s turned to face him fully, nervous and nerve-wracking, and the force of what Martin realizes is the Eye is turned upon him. “Did you speak to Annabelle Cane?” he asks with gravitas, and Martin feels pulled taut.

Jon, the thing that is and isn’t Jon-- _the Archivist_ feels like he’s reached out and grabbed Martin, even as he sits still in his chair. He’s caught between the eyes of the Archivist and the strings of the Web, stock-still and swaying slightly under the buzzing static growing in his head. “Um. I?” he blinks hard. “Sorry, I’m… very dizzy,” he lies lies lies, “No? When would I…”

In a flash, the Archivist is up and by his side, hands hovering tentatively over Martin’s arms like he’s afraid to touch. “I’m so sorry, I’m-- Martin, are you alright? Please, sit, I’m so.. lord,” Jon says, voice thick with fright. Martin finds himself guided into a statement giver’s chair, hands finding the armrests and gripping until the bout of battling static passes. It wasn’t even that whatever Jon did was that strong, but the force of Annabelle’s control fighting the Archivist’s was dizzying. The legs of a spider prickle under his jumper.

“I’m alright, I’m.. yes, I’m alright,” he says hazily. “Sorry, I--” he forces a laugh as he lies and lies and, “I guess I’m not immune to hangovers either.” _But will that make Jon suspicious of the excuse for Tim? Has he ruined it, does he know now?_ Something frantic in him thinks he’s running out of time. “Sorry, no, that.. I just don’t know what came over me.”

“...Right,” says Jon, sounding confused but backing off as Martin stands. “Do-- do rest if you need it, please don’t push yourself. I’m… just, take care, Martin.”

This Jon is certainly not whoever Jon was before all this, but the earnest worry in his eyes strikes something in Martin. Is this who he’s supposed to be fearing?

“Of course. Sorry, I really didn’t mean to cause a fuss, I’ll, I’m going to get back to work. Sorry,” he tacks on, because he has a compulsive need to look pitiful. 

Jon nods once and Martin uses all his self-control to not run out of the room. Tim and Sasha look up the second the door creaks open, and Tim is on his feet the second he sees Martin’s face, but Martin waves him off, flopping into his chair. “Something happened?” Sasha asks, to which Martin shrugs, frantically looking for a way to explain without running into Annabelle’s blocks.

What ends up coming out is: “I want to go check out the Archives proper.” He’s running out of time. There’s just no other option than to go now, all this laying low was stupid, he needs to see for himself. “Look for the other Martin.” If he waits, it will be too late. He needs to go, needs to see, and all of the sudden Tim’s holding his arm, and he’s out of his seat again, halfway to the door. When did he..?

“You are _not_ going back there,” Tim says, borderline shoving Martin to get between him and the exit. Martin freezes, disoriented by how he’d moved without thinking. 

He blinks dumbly at Tim for several long seconds before his spinning thoughts coalesce into one realization: _Annabelle._ For fucks sake. He’s going to scream if she does any more bullshit to him. 

Finally, he realizes both Tim and Sasha are expecting him to speak, and he manages a, “Fine. You’re… right. You’re right.”

“Christ,” says Tim, laughing without humor. “I thought I was going to have to fistfight you to keep you from walking to your death.”

Martin laughs with false humor and sits back down. “I’m just sick of all this.”

“I wholeheartedly concur.”

Getting home that afternoon, Martin finds he is angry, which is… bad. Martin doesn’t like being angry, because he knows he looms and he knows he can be cruel, and he doesn’t-- he doesn’t like being like that. He takes deep breaths on the Tube and more on the way up to his flat until he’s calm enough to open the door. Just as he thought, Annabelle is sitting on his couch, and he finds he is angry once more.

She smiles at him before he even crosses the threshold and Martin just. 

He closes the door.

Taking a few deep breaths, he slumps against the wall. He isn’t going to make it worse by being a dick, not even to a monster. Especially not to a monster, actually. Self preservation, Martin. 

Annabelle waits patiently for him to get his shit together before he walks back in, leveling her with a carefully neutral look. “Annabelle.”

“Yes, Martin?”

“You did something to me.”

“Did I?”

“Kindly fuck off.” He does his best not to scowl, flopping down in the armchair. “You said you’d tell me things, so tell me things. What did you do to me, what did you put in my head.”

Annabelle at least looks a touch remorseful, or at least uncertain, but she doesn’t let it curb her humor. “Ah, Martin. I didn’t put anything in your head. Much more Elias’ style, really. I… brought to your attention one of your desires. You already felt like it was urgent, and I agreed, so I pulled on it.”

“So you mind-controlled me. You could’ve, I don’t know, _asked?”_

Annabelle raises a brow. “Alright. Will you go?”

“No!”

“Exactly.”

Martin gapes at her, slamming his eyes shut to deal with the bubbling frustration. “I said no to your _pull_ too,” he says, even tone cracking. “All you did was make me upset with you. I _might_ have had a different answer if you hadn’t tried to bully me into it.”

When she’s silent for a long moment, Martin opens his eyes. She’s not looking at him, instead staring pensively at the wall. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She sets her jaw. “You’re… right, I think. That was unfair of me, and I apologize.” Huh. “I do still think the situation has gotten rather more urgent with how you spoke to the Archivist.”

“Was that so terrible to admit?” he snips, because he feels like he deserves to be a little snippy. He clamps down on it quickly though. “What did he… do? Is that still Jon? He’s not, I mean… like you and Elias? He seems too human for that.”

“Issued a compulsion for you to tell the truth. It was low level, or it would have ripped clean through my bindings, to be honest.” Annabelle shrugs, though she looks off-put. “All monsters were human once. How much it is Jonathan and how much it is the Archivist, I don’t know. It’s under the thing in the Archive’s protection.”

“You seem to think he’s an _it,”_ he mutters. “Weird and rude, just saying. So, what, Jon’s… more powerful than you?”

Smiling, she says, “You can call me an it too, if you’d like.”

“No, that’s _weird and rude_.”

“If you insist,” she shrugs. “The Archivist isn’t particularly _more_ powerful, unless it-- _he_ was holding back on you. It’s a significant power increase that he can compel you at all, honestly, which is a worry, but I don’t think he can do much besides that. You’re not in danger, Martin.”

“I’m not worried about being in danger.” She stares at him. “What? I didn’t say I _shouldn’t_ be, it’s just… not my concern. My concern is you. Your motivations, and also, like, the mind-control.” 

Her brow furrows, considering, and Martin tilts his head at her as she goes silent.

“I am, or was, a title known as the Weaver.” Her tone is quiet and terse, eyes dark. “A bit like the Archivist, but for my own patron. An identity, a _being,_ in its own right. The moment this other, disconcertingly familiar _thing_ shows up, I am all of the sudden no longer the Weaver, the Archivist is rapidly becoming a threat I can not check, and threads I had assumed were finally beginning to come to a head have unraveled without the Mother so much as caring.” 

She stares down Martin carefully. “I am not as in control as you think I am, my dear Martin. I am a much younger avatar than some of the others in this game, and thus my position has always been a precarious one. There are worrying power influxes at play and I do not know about any of them. My motivations are simply to get a handle on the things that have spiraled out of my control. To be in the know, fittingly enough.”

A tingling on his arm proves to be a spider crawling down, off of him and towards her. For a moment, Martin finds the gesture oddly sweet, but he doesn’t miss that she dodged the mind-control accusation. “Okay. Yes, I understand. That doesn’t make it… better, but I get it. You know very little. I don’t suppose you know anything about whatever ‘last time’ they were talking about?”

“No, not at all,” she sighs, for the first time fully slumping into the couch. Her eyes shut and without the black pits she seems almost human. “I told you I’d be honest, and I was. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“And you want me to talk to them, when you refused an interview.”

Annabelle looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, practically poisoned by the bare minimum vulnerability she’s shown. “Removed from my position of power, Elias would not hesitate to kill me for getting anywhere near his Institute or his Archivist.”

“ _Kill--”_

“Monster,” she says without missing a beat. Martin nods, grimacing. “You are one his assets, and he’s rather possessive over those. Besides, you are a known variable to him. He knows you’re not going to set the Institute alight, whereas he has no such certainty about me. Do you _understand?”_

A cool breeze blows over Martin’s neck, and he turns to see his window open. Avoiding Annabelle’s gaze and question, he stands to go close it. “Don’t open my windows,” he mutters irritably, and then, “Yes. I understand. I’m still not happy about it.”

“I’ve extended you my trust. I don’t know what else I can give.”

“My ability to talk about you.” She hesitates, and Martin tilts his head. “Is that trust I’m seeing?”

Annabelle is silent, staring at him. “Ah, you’re fit for the Web indeed.”

“Shut up about that,” he snaps, turning back to look at her. “This is part of the deal, stop negging me about how evil I am.”

A smile spreads slowly across her face, and Martin feels a tired regret begin to bloom. “The deal?”

“Yes, the deal. I’ll do it. You were right, I want to know, and if the Web wants this then… like, I’m going to do it anyway, I think? So fine. I’ll go check out the other Martin tomorrow at work, if you let me talk about you. I won’t say anything to the others, I just don’t like knowing you’re actively controlling me. I don’t want _any_ active mind-controlling, actually, and that’s a hard line. Boundaries, and stuff.”

There’s a pause, but Martin knows it isn’t hesitancy this time. “Boundaries,” she says with humor. “Does it count as negging if I tell you you’re fit for the Web because of something negative?”

“I don’t want to hear it either way,” he grouses, finding that the grouch is mostly an act. He doesn’t like how obviously monstrous she is, but he does… like this interaction, he’s finding. Being a part of something. Negotiating. It’s a fun little thrill, like skydiving except he’s… bartering with his own autonomy and safety. That’s kind of like skydiving, right?

Annabelle’s amused glint tells him she probably senses this, and is thinking some more bullshit about he’s the perfect puppeteer. Ugh. “Come here,” she says, beckoning him. “I’ll even keep you awake this time.”

He gives her a dry, “Thank you,” as he steps over, watching as Annabelle stands. She’s a good deal shorter than him and shoves him bodily onto the couch to compensate.

It’s not really dramatic like he’d thought. Without the woozy haze of her knocking him unconscious, it’s really just her standing in front of him, weaving her hands against some invisible threat. He tracks it with his eyes, feeling heavy and leaden. When her right hand makes an upward arc, she says, “I’m putting a failsafe string on you.”

“A… failsafe?” It’s sort of pleasant how distant he feels, head tipping up to hers. He’s choosing to trust Annabelle.

She brings her hand back down like pulling a knot tight, and Martin feels a tug. “It ties us together inexorably and preternaturally,” Annabelle says, in a lofty, pretentious voice. Feeling the slight trance fade, he raises a brow at her.

“Don’t make me pull out a dictionary.”

Her smile is as innocent as a convict’s. “It’ll let me know if you’re in danger.”

The afternoon is calm after that. Annabelle doesn’t leave, and Martin doesn’t bother her to until the sun sets, where he turns to her and just asks, “Are you, like… my room-mate now? Do you live somewhere?”

Annabelle shrugs, taking on an obnoxious grin, “I do have a home. I _can_ go, and I will respect your wishes if you ask me to leave, because--”

“Because you’re respecting my boundaries, yes, thankyouverymuch,” Martin sighs, because it’s the sixteenth time she’s made this joke over the course of the afternoon. Making a joke out of making a big show of respecting his wishes is probably a tactic to make him trust her, but he honestly doesn’t care. It’s sort of funny underneath his exasperation, or at least he’s fond of it. “Are you going to sleep here, though? I don’t much care.”

“Mm,” she hums. “I might.” Martin levels her with a look. It takes another ten minutes to wrangle a _yes, I will stay the night, Martin_ out of her, and he sets her up with several spare blankets. He doesn’t end up sleeping in the armchair, but it’s a near thing, half-dozing while Annabelle explains exactly how fucked up the Desolation is, no really, she swears, it’s awful. She cuts off mid-sentence and Martin pries his eyes open to see her scrutinizing him with a lopsided smile. “Go to bed, Martin dear.”

“Oh-- be quiet, Annabelle _dear,”_ he sneers with tragic fondness, dragging himself to bed.

In the morning, she makes breakfast. Martin wakes up to the smell of french toast, which is… nice? “This situation is so weird,” he murmurs, sitting down at the counter.

Annabelle chirps a, “Good morning!” while setting a plate down for him. “I, for one, am enjoying uprooting your life.”

“I think you’d be enjoying it more if yours wasn’t also being uprooted.”

She hums. “Fair.”

He’s bid to work with a blackeyed smile and shows up with the desire to explore his newfound freedom. Tim and Sasha are in just a bit before him, digging into work with both a quiet seriousness and an air of childish excitement. “Something happen?” he asks, settling down at his desk.

“Jon isn’t here. We can’t decide if this is a terrible omen or if we should hold festivities for our release from captivity,” says Sasha faux-solemnly.

“Both,” cheers Tim, slinging an arm over her shoulders.

Martin laughs, eyes alight with new possibilities. It’s a dumb joke, not really funny, but the fact that he can say it at all means his, “Maybe he finally got that interview with Annabelle,” comes out practically giddy.

Tim gapes, corners of his mouth twitching up incredulously. “He’s trying to interview the spider monster?”

“She could be a very polite spider monster, for all you know,” he scoffs at Tim, trying not to let the glee bleed onto his face. “Buy him drinks and everything.”

Sasha snorts, back to scrolling on her computer. “And definitely drug him to be used in her next ritual?” 

It’s so stupid, it’s literally not funny at all, but Martin’s life is a bit wild at this point. He can’t help thinking of the sealed tea in the Starbucks and cackles so hard he has to bury his face in his hands. It’s close enough to manic that he feels Tim and Sasha’s concerned look, and he has to claw composure back bit by bit.

By the time Martin goes for his daily tea run, Jon’s still not in. That’s enough to concern Martin a little, damper his mood just a bit, but it turns out to be a non-issue.

Mostly because he very narrowly avoids running into him again in the hallway.

“Oh! Jon,” Martin greets. “I thought you weren’t in today?”

Jon blinks, and then laughs awkwardly. “No, I, I’ve been in. I was just in the Archives proper getting, ah, 9910607.” There are no papers in his hands, and he realizes this as Martin glances down at his empty palms. “Or, looking for. No luck, as you can tell.” He rolls his shoulders and gives Martin a little smile. “Guess I should tell the others I’m here.”

“Probably,” he says, laughing a little. That was a huge, blatant lie. He was with the other Martin.

...Maybe this impulse to look for it in the middle of his goddamn tea run is Annabelle. The thought does, in fact, occur to him. He just dismisses it. _Trust,_ he tells himself.

“I’ll be by in a minute, just getting tea,” he says, because someone might as well know if he gets slaughtered by the thing in the Archive. The thing that is maybe Jon is probably not the best candidate, but oh well. Tim and Sasha will look if he’s gone long enough anyway. 

Jon smiles, with that subtle tense discomfort he does when looking at Martin these days, but earnest. “Lucky I caught you when I did, or I mightn’t have gotten tea today.”

Martin laughs an assent and a goodbye and breezes past the break room entirely, though he does wait until the hall is empty to go inside. 

Document storage, the Archive proper, is scary. As always. Having Annabelle’s metaphorical hands on his shoulders and literal spiders under his clothes doesn’t make the relentless feeling of being watched abate much, and soon Martin starts to squirm as he wanders the shelves. Tentatively, he calls, “Hello?”

There’s one second of silence, and then two, and then: “Ah! Hello dear.”

Martin spins on his heel, heart jackhammering. 

And there it is.

It’s _him._ But it’s not. It’s him, mixed with-- “Jon’s going to be quite upset about this.”

Is that--?

The figure has Martin’s build, mostly, but an inch or two shorter. Instead of ginger waves, the figure’s curls have tightened, bleached themselves blonde, and coiffed themselves in a familiar pattern around the crown of their head, the back tied back intricately. The dim of the stacks means Martin can’t see them well, but he can’t see any white to their eyes. “You’re not me,” he says, voice steadier and calmer than his racing heart.

“Nope,” says the other… not Martin. It-- they sound obscenely casual, whereas Martin is trying to convince himself he’s not having a stroke. He’s not succeeding. “Er. Hm. No, I am you, and no, I am not you,” they say, which is _not helping._ “God. I always thought The Distortion describing its identity in riddles was ridiculous, but honestly, it just makes sense. Are you alright? You look a bit pale.”

Martin’s head tilts, squinting. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, sorry,” they agree.

He’s not sure whether he should laugh or run. “Can you… be clear with me then.”

The figure claps, nails painted black. “Yes! Right, um… I am about as much Martin Blackwood as the Jon you know right now is currently Jonathan Sims?” A crooked smile. It’s familiar from two directions, and then it falls. “Well, no, christ. Can you give me a second on that one?”

Martin speaks slowly and with clear enunciation. “You want me to give you a second. To explain who you are. No?”

“Fine, uhh. I’m you from the future?”

“No.”

They smile. “Yeah, not quite. I’m genuinely… having a little difficulty finding a way to explain it that doesn’t involve pie charts.”

“Cool, cool, cool, so-- why the fuck -- are you _here?_ And what did you do to Jon? And if you’re not me, what the hell am I supposed to call you? Are.. are you…?”

The figure laughs into their hand in a way that rings _Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle_. “I didn't do anything to him, Jon is... fine, actually. More human than he's been in years. I’ve been going by Martin for the most part, just, because I’m with Jon, and we have-- you know, a history, but… I suppose you could call me Anna..” they pause. Hum. “No. Yeah, no, don’t do that, that’s really weird. How about the Weaver?”

“So you are Annabelle,” says Martin faintly. “Okay, yeah, I’m not calling you Annabelle. I already _know_ Annabelle. You… stole her title? And Jon is... what?” He squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them to that same uncanny face.

“I’m as much Annabelle as I am you, and a bit more. Jon's a bit less him that you know him as, but still just Jon."

“Because the Weaver is a being in its own right,” Martin echos. "Does the, ah, the _Archivist_ function the same way?"

The Weaver tilts their head, a fanged smile playing at their mouth. “She explained it to you? That’s a surprise to me, and I _am_ her,” they snort, incredulous. "I said we're from the future. It doesn't much like there being two Weavers in the world, or two Archivists, so it stole it. We think. Jon losing most of his power was something of a surprise, to be honest."

Martin frowns. “You’re not the version of her that got her power stripped,” he says, uncertain for a moment why he’s defending her. Then he is certain: because he likes Annabelle. She’s a prat, but she’s funny and trying her best, and this thing showed up and snuck around the Archives and is _annoying_ in a way that Martin recognizes from looking in the mirror. He definitely prefers Annabelle, which is why the neutral head tilt the Weaver gives that’s clearly a remnant of her is unsettling. "You still didn't explain the future bit, by the way, that's a little..." he trails off, trying to express his frustration in his face.

The Weaver nods, blasé. “I’m not. Suppose that’s why I got it wrong.” Then they sigh, fidgeting with one hand. It’s Martin’s nervous tic, and he feels weirdly possessive about it for a second. “You have questions. I can’t answer you here, not completely. Elias is listening-- by the way, he’s--”

“A monster, I know.”

“I was going to say evil, but yes, in a word.” Despite Martin’s agitation, the Weaver smiles at him in a way that’s fond and uncomfortably sympathetic. “This way, to the tunnels under the Institute. He can’t watch us there.”

“Riight, you’re just going to take me to the spooky tunnels?”

“Yes,” they say with Annabelle’s lofty humor. “I won’t stab you, I promise.”

Martin scowls, but mostly out of unease. “Yes, I trust you completely,” he lays thick the dryness. “I thought Elias doesn’t… mess with the Web. You’re Web Jesus or whatever, why would he watch you?”

“Watching is what he does, dear,” Weaver says amiably. “Elias is a regency piece of shit who I’m blackmailing, but I’m still keeping some information from him. Can’t have him getting any ideas from the future.” They wink.

“Right, fun, but uh, I don’t want to follow you into the murder-tunnels until I know what you are? Sorry, but,” he pauses. “No, actually. I’m not sorry.”

He means it to sting, but the Weaver looks delighted. “You say murder tunnels as a joke, but there’s a body down there,” they hum, and Martin freezes. “Gertrude,” they clarify, which clarifies nothing. 

“Christ, you and Annabelle love just saying ominous shit, don’t you?” The Weaver nods, having the decency to look almost sheepish. “What-- why are you _like that._ How did this,” he gestures to the weird conglomerate before him, “Happen?”

“Ah, uh,” the Weaver chuckles uncomfortably. “Annabelle gets mauled! Most, um. Most of my-- our, your friends die. That’s why we’re here from the future, to stop that. And the apocalypse.”

“The apocalypse?”

“Yeah, that’s a tunnel conversation, sorry.”

“Okay: all my friends die?”

“Mm… Tim blows himself up and Sasha gets replaced.”

“Repla--” 

“Tunnels.”

Martin sighs. “Fine. Annabelle gets mauled?”

“We get attacked by, ah.. a group of arsonists. I.. or, you and her-- me and her? God, this is difficult to parse, um. I, Martin and Annabelle, got wildly injured. Neither of them was in the shape to survive as a singular being, and Jon needed her assistance, the assistance of the Web, and god, Martin wasn’t going to leave Jon alone, so I… they…” The Weaver trails off, eyes on the wall, and makes a little sowing gesture. Martin grimaces. “And now there's one. Wasn’t pleasant.”

“Why.. the Desolation--” he pauses. “Did they--”

The Weaver laughs with little humor, strained and edged with pain. Sympathy blooms in Martin’s chest, much to his irritation. “Yeah, fuck the Desolation. I try to be as neutral as possible, but christ. They’re abhorrent.” A pause, a head tilt. “Just how much _do_ you know?”

“Plenty?” says Martin, shrugging off the scrutiny. “Let’s-- fine, I’ll follow you into the tunnels,” he sighs. “I want to know what’s going on with…” he trails off.

The Weaver is still, black eyes glazed. Martin furrows his brow, watching as the Weaver’s expression twitches, and they mutter, “Ah. Shit.”

“What?” Martin asks, but the Weaver is already off, stalking down the aisles. “Hey!”

Without pausing, they call, “It’s Jon,” and all of the sudden Martin is jogging to catch up.

Martin hears the struggle before he reaches the door. “Tim,” comes Jon’s shaking voice. “Tim, I think this is a bit-- a bit unnecesss _sasha, ow--_!”

The Weaver gets the door open to the sight of Tim leaning in close to Jon, low and threatening. Jon himself is in Sasha’s arms, leaning away from the knife she holds at his throat. Tim, downright dangerous, demands, “What did you do to,” and then freezes, eyes drifting up to the door. “Martin?” He blinks. “Two Martins.”

“We’re working on what to call me,” says the Weaver, light but with threat in their smile. That smile zeros in on Sasha, and the knife clatters to the ground, Sasha straightening like a puppet on a string. 

Jon flinches out of both Tim and Sasha’s range the second he’s free, straight into the Weaver’s arms. Even as they embrace, Jon scolds, _“Martin._ Lord, you could’ve asked her.”

“Sorry,” the Weaver says, sheepish once more, and drops a--

Drops a kiss into Jon’s hair.

Huh.

Martin tucks that piece of information into a box to never be thought about again ever, and refuses to feel jealous about it. Sasha’s gotten her knife again, looking unsettled at whatever the Weaver had done to make her drop it. Tim’s pressed them close together, aiming themselves like a weapon at Jon and the Weaver. “Um,” says Martin, sensing that he’s something of a middle ground here. “Hello.”

“Please stop pointing a knife at us,” asks the Weaver nicely. “I care about you both but I value Jon’s life above either of you without question.”

Jon freezes, swatting the Weaver. _“Martin,_ stop,” he snaps, a fine shake to his frame. The Weaver links their hands and Martin has to compartmentalize that too. “We.. ah, we have a lot of explaining to do, but… I promise, I _am_ Jon. And Martin is,” he freezes, glancing between Martin and ‘Martin.’ 

“Not a threat, I-- I don’t think,” finishes Martin. 

“Explain, _now,”_ Tim says flatly, reaching for Martin, the one who is still himself. He finds himself hesitating, though, ending up standing to the side between the two pairs.

Jon grimaces, that same misery from the last time Tim snapped at him playing on his face. “Where do I start?”

“The time travel, maybe, or the Entities,” Martin chimes in.

He probably should’ve expected it when Tim and Sasha turn on him, and Tim almost snarls when he asks, “You _knew?_ ”

“Um,” says Martin. “Only a little bit? In my defense… I was sort of- physically incapable of telling you until this morning. Then I… made a promise.”

Jon blinks, stammering, “Sorry, sorry-- a promise?”

 _“Speaking of_ ,” cuts the Weaver. “Annabelle’s around here somewhere, isn’t she?” They lean in close to Martin, who stumbles back until he realizes they’re more concerned with the rather large spider that’s climbed on his shoulder. “You can come out now. Or just watch, if you prefer.” 

There’s just silence. The Weaver shrugs, and says, “Let’s sit down. We’ll have to take you into the tunnels eventually, but--”

“The _what?”_ Sasha asks, which is why they do not go to the tunnels. They end up in the breakroom with Martin making tea for the agitated foursome as Jon and the Weaver tag-team through the information Martin already knows.

“Okay,” Tim says, about halfway through. “There’s two Martins. Where’s the other Jon?” It's still demanding but the threat is mostly gone.

Jon, who both is and is not his Jon, waves. “I was just… transplanted. Like they merged my past and current-- er, current and future-- bodies. Two Jons were simply not meant to exist at the same time. I assume… the Weaver did not experience this because it would be a bit tricky to splice them into two people like that.” He stumbles over the title, clearly used to calling them Martin. 

Slowly, they meander through the story, and Sasha puts down her knife.

And eventually, out comes Annabelle. She sits, silent, listening, on the arm of Martin’s chair.

And in his office sits Elias, one eye on the Archives and the other on his schemes, planning and plotting and weaving. But for once, the Web doesn’t smile upon him passively. 

When they’ve gotten through the bits that Jon and the Weaver deem they can hear without concern, they agree to part for the tunnels. The Weaver stands and stretches-- side by side, the similarities between Annabelle and the Weaver are uncanny. 

When the trapdoor is opened, they look into the eye carved crown molding with a smile that is Martin’s, a wink that is Annabelle’s, and eyes that are something else altogether. “I suppose we’ll have to move up our plans to kill Elias, too.”

That’s the last thing Elias hears before they duck into the tunnels. The last thing he sees is Martin’s one-fingered salute to the ceiling as he goes down after them.

For once in as many years, Elias sits in his office. Afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watching y'all go "oh it's future martin in the archives!" kept making me laugh because.. i mean........ yy.... yes? yes. technically, sure. i had to stop myself from tagging this jon/martin/annabelle. thank you for reading! this has technically been the first mulichapter ive ever completed because my work ethic is bad... 
> 
> also im enamoured by my own weird cursed creation in the weaver and their MASSIVE IDENTITY ISSUES that don't come out very well here, so more may come out in this universe. but no promises tho,

**Author's Note:**

> [mulaney voice] and i will pepper in a little annabelle cane...
> 
> this fic is going to go slightly weird places but that's alright. i've accepted that this concept is weird and i'm going to write it anyway. the currently situation is not NEARLY as bad as it looks for martin i promise
> 
> this is all plotted out but # of chapter is likely to change and is a Vague Estimate currently, haha! thank u for reading


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